


The Winds of War

by thelightofmorning



Series: Tales of the Aurelii [12]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Class Issues, Corpse Desecration, Crimes & Criminals, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Incompatible Mixed-Orientation Marriage, Misogyny, Multi, Religious Conflict, Violence, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-12-23 17:53:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21085418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Laina South-Wind's worst fears have been realised with the return of the World-Eater.With Skyrim still at war, she must pick through the tangled webs of kinship and loyalty, the sins of her family's past and her own trauma to keep the province from falling apart as she desperately gathers the knowledge needed to defeat Alduin.They say the gods only place the burdens that a person can bear on them. The gods seem to have far greater estimations of Laina's talents than she does...





	1. Black Wings Unfurled

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, alcohol use, classism, criminal acts, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma, child neglect, child abuse and mentions of genocide, adultery, torture, incompatible mixed-orientation marriage, child abandonment and child death. Welp, folks, canon is finally starting in the Aureliiverse! READ THE PREQUELS TO UNDERSTAND THE CHANGES TO CANON IF YOU’RE NEW TO THE SERIES.

“Sovngarde awaits.”

Bjarni didn’t need Ralof’s solemn observation to know that. The headsman’s block and the Priestess of Arkay were visible as the wagons rolled into Helgen’s town square. Tullius, fresh from a conversation with Ambassador Elenwen of the Thalmor, dismounted from his fine blood bay gelding and began to snap orders at the Legion lackeys.

“Empire loves their damned lists,” Ralof observed ruefully as everyone got off the wagon, their names called, and were sorted into two lines. Quaestor Hadvar, Rikke’s chief aide, was the one assigned to their wagon. Bjarni stuck his tongue out at the man in lieu of giving him the finger.

“Bjarni Ulfricsson,” grated Tullius. “Some here call you a hero, but a hero doesn’t launch a rebellion against his High Queen and try to usurp her throne.”

“Elisif was never ratified by the Moot, so she isn’t the true High Queen of Skyrim,” Bjarni reminded him. “I know you Cyrods are slow to understand laws that aren’t your own, but surely even you knew that.”

The Redguard who’d been picked up in the carnificina, a lean youth with a fancy gold-hilted sword, burst into laughter.

Tullius regarded him sourly before looking back at Bjarni. “We’re putting you and your rebellion down today. Any final words?”

“Yes, I hope Elenwen bought you dinner first before-“ Tullius’ blow across his cheek ended Bjarni’s retort. He spat blood in the surprised General’s face before taking his place in the line.

“Who are you?” Hadvar asked the Redguard.

“I am Cirroc ibn Rustem al-Elinhir, First-Rank Sword-Saint of Hammerfell,” was the young man’s clear and calm response. “Son of Safiya, Lady of Elinhir, and grandson of the Redguard Ambassador to Skyrim Beroc al-Dragonstar, with full sanction to hunt renegades of the Ra Gada in other lands.”

“Gods fucking dammit,” swore Tullius. “The son of Rustem Aurelius!”

“Rustem ibn Setareh al-Elinhir,” Cirroc corrected.

“The man who murdered the fucking Emperor!” Tullius roared.

“Puts you in a pickle, doesn’t it?” Cirroc pointed out. “If you execute one of Hammerfell’s three living Sword-Saints, you piss off the Redguards. But you pass up your chance to exact vengeance on the Aurelii, which might hurt your standing with the Elder Council.”

Now it was Bjarni’s turn to laugh as Tullius went red with rage.

“General,” said a warm, pleasant contralto from somewhere in the crowd, “Remand Cirroc to me until the end of the execution. Then we can release him to do… whatever.”

The soldiers parted to reveal a compact black-haired woman whose aquiline profile matched that of Cirroc and whose eyes were similar to Bjarni’s. She wore elegant blue-green robes of cotton brocade and silver jewellery, every outline gleaming with enchantment, and a sword of blue ice hung from her hip. Her face was familiar to anyone who knew the Aurelii or the line of Kreathling Jarls.

“So you’re Callaina,” Cirroc observed as Hadvar sawed through his leather binds.

“Laina South-Wind,” their sister corrected with a sigh. “I seem to meet my brothers in… awkward situations.”

Bjarni had to chuckle at that. “Not as awkward for you as for me at the moment.”

Laina’s gaze was sad. “I know. There is no joy in this… but while Skyrim remains broken and crownless, the Prophecy of the Last Dragonborn may yet be fulfilled.”

“Dragons are a myth!” yelled Gorran of Whiterun. “Traitorous whore-“

Cirroc reached out his hand and the gold-hilted sword flew of its own accord to it. “I might personally sympathise with anyone who wishes to be free of the Imperial yoke, but I won’t tolerate any insult to my family.”

Tullius was now purple with outrage. “Give them their last rites!” he snapped.

“For the love of Talos, shut up and let’s get this over with,” Gorran declared before the priestess could speak. He marched over to the block, spat on the Tribune and sneered at the executioner. “My ancestors are smiling at me today, Imperial. Can yours say the same?”

Just before the axe fell to take his life, there was an eerie cry across the Jeralls.

“What was that?” Hadvar asked nervously.

“Nothing. Get on with it,” Tullius said quickly.

“Next, Bjarni Ulfricsson!” snapped the Tribune.

The cry sounded again and Laina gasped.

“Get inside! Get the civilians inside!” she yelled as the headsman raised his axe. _“Kynareth damn you, get everyone inside the Keep!”_

Of course, it was too late. A black dragon landed on the top of the tower and the world turned to fire and fury.

But none of that reached Bjarni because Laina had raised a Greater Ward that shielded those in the courtyard from the direct blast. “Get inside!” she yelled. _“Get the fuck inside!”_

Bjarni was helped to his feet by Ralof, who’d gotten free of his binds, and they made it to the tower. Cirroc was already there, cutting bonds with a knife. “I don’t recall dragons being on the list of dangerous predators in Skyrim,” the Redguard remarked with the same nonchalance Bjarni recalled from his father.

“There’s a prophecy,” Bjarni explained. “Congratulations, it might be the end times.”

“Can we discuss the philosophical ramifications of a dragon later?” Cirroc suggested dryly.

Bjarni nodded. “Good idea. Let’s go, people!”

The Keep’s front room was rather crowded by the time all those who could find safety did. Tullius, Hadvar and several Legionnaires went for their weapons, only for Laina to step between all parties before hostilities could break out.

“_That_ was Alduin World-Eater, if I know my dragons – and I am generally considered an expert on the Dragon Cult,” she said acidly. “I would like to propose a truce until we are free of this place. That _thing_ out there wants to rule and then destroy the world, and he can gain the strength of the heroic dead from snacking on them in Sovngarde. So if anyone wants to be difficult, tell me now so I can leave you as bait so that the rest of us can escape.”

“You’re going to say ‘I told you so’, aren’t you?” Tullius griped.

“All the way back to Solitude,” Laina confirmed without shame. “But Nords dying bravely will only empower the World-Eater, General. We tried to stop it and we failed. All we can do is pick up the pieces.”

Bjarni stared at his sister. “You knew about the carnificina?”

“I knew it was an option,” she admitted wearily. “There’s more of Mother in me than I realised, because I thought it was a fair swap.”

Bjarni glanced at his Stormcloaks, most of whom were grim-faced or in shock. “A truce until we are free of this place,” he agreed.

“Fine,” Tullius conceded grudgingly. “Only because the dragons are a bigger threat than some ragtag rebels.”

“Can’t we just kill it now?” Cirroc asked in disbelief. “I have the Soul Sword of A’Tor, _you_ have magic…”

“A specific Shout, which I haven’t managed to decipher, defeated Alduin,” Laina told him with a grimace. “I think only the Greybeards know it… and they’re not overly fond of Blades and their descendants.”

Alduin Shouted again and some of the smaller stones from the ceiling fell to the ground.

“A truce… for now,” Bjarni reiterated. “But I don’t think the Empire will keep it.”

He turned away and led his Stormcloaks deeper into the Keep. What a tangled web of family and obligation and vengeance was woven by the gods.


	2. Skill Over Strength

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. The main questline will be truncated and rearranged because Laina already knows (and has done) a lot about the dragons.

Laina swallowed the last of her mead as she studied the tracings from Bleak Falls Barrow and its Dragonstone laid out on the bed. She’d gone to the tomb just after Torygg’s loss of the High King’s crown on a hunch… and now she realised that she had a map to almost every dragon burial in Skyrim. Copies of her findings, with advice on how to kill dragons, would need to be dispatched to every Hold in Skyrim, even the rebel ones. Until the Last Dragonborn was found, survival hung on a thread.

The tentative truce between Legion and Stormcloak ended by the time they reached the Guardian Stones. Cirroc had elected to accompany her to Riverwood because the first target on his list was a Crown renegade purportedly hiding in Whiterun. When she’d asked him why in the name of the gods he’d come to Skyrim, where it was known their father was the assassin of Emperor Titus Mede, the sword-singer had shrugged and said, “Nothing worthwhile was ever gained without a challenge.”

It just proved insanity probably ran in the family.

Using her Alteration magic, Laina quickly made ten copies of the map with dragon burials, potential Word Walls and translations of the Dragonstone’s runic inscriptions on it. Hadvar could take copies to Falkreath, Morthal and Solitude; a bespelled hawk could handle Markarth; Bjarni was in Riverwood so he could deliver them to the Old Holds; and she would hand a map to Jarl Balgruuf the Greater herself.

“You know your art,” Cirroc observed as he lounged in the seat in the room’s far corner. “You should come to the Mages’ Academy when this dragon business is over.”

“That might be a bit hard, seeing as I’m married to the Jarl of the Reach,” Laina answered as she folded and sealed each map. “I appreciate the offer, though.”

“Father mourned you… and did his best to protect you when he found out you were alive,” Cirroc continued. “Mother wanted to help you, if only so that Elinhir had a competent court mage. There is some inheritance due, I think. You mightn’t be Redguard but you definitely have Yokudan blood.”

“Thanks.” Laina sorted the maps out. “I’m sorry I haven’t greeted you with love and affection. I’ve been trying to prepare and delay this damn Prophecy for a long time… and now it’s here, I know I’m not ready.”

Cirroc shrugged. “I’m not offended. I might question your political allegiance, given the Imperial betrayals of Skyrim and Hammerfell for the past twenty years, but I understand why you’re so standoffish.”

“My allegiance isn’t so much to the Empire as it is to Torygg and Elisif, who gave me a chance,” Laina said as she rose to her feet, stretching every joint in her body with a groan. “You should be careful in Skyrim, Cirroc. Our sire caused a lot of grief for all sides of the civil war before he died.”

“It was in our father’s nature,” he said with a sigh. “But I’ll take the warning to heart. What will you do now?”

Laina smiled wryly. “Get some sleep and hope a dragon doesn’t burn the inn down around me.”

…

“You handle yourself well. You could make for a decent Shield-Brother.”

Cirroc sheathed the Soul Sword and smiled politely at the redhead whose skimpy armour didn’t look suited to a battlefield. “I’m a Sword-Saint of Hammerfell. That would probably make me better than any Shield-Brother, whatever that is.”

Behind him, Laina dismissed her flesh-hardening spell with a laugh. “You’ve inherited Father’s arrogance, I see. That’s Aela the Huntress, the big guy’s Farkas the Hero-Twin, and the girl’s Ria. They’re Companions of Jorrvaskr.”

Cirroc shrugged. “You act like I should know who they are.”

“The Companions are a fighting order that have existed since the days of Ysgramor and the Five Hundred,” Laina explained as she neared them. “You might have more raw skill, Cirroc, but I’d put my money on the Companion in any duel. _You_ fight as a sacrament. _They_ fight for survival, and believe me, that makes the difference.”

“Are you a Sword-Saint by courtesy or a genuine Ansei?” Aela asked curiously.

“A true Ansei,” Cirroc confirmed. “Are you looking to test yourself?”

“No, but our arms master will be interested in a bout. Come up to Jorrvaskr, if you think you’re worth anything in a fight.” Aela gestured to the girl Ria, who drew her knife and began to hack toes from the giant. Strange trophy but it was easier to carry than the head, he supposed.

“If I can, I will,” Cirroc promised.

“It’s said there isn’t a weapon Vilkas hasn’t mastered but the bow, which is Aela’s domain,” Laina said as they walked up to Whiterun, which was an impressive three-tiered city that oozed prosperity. “You might just find yourself eating humble pie.”

Cirroc gestured dismissively. “Better a master of one than a master of none.”

His sister shook her head with the superior air all older siblings acquired. He’d seen such expressions among his cousins. “You’ll see. Now mind your manners. Balgruuf is proud and touchy.”

“Not another fucking Alik’r,” spat the gate guard as they neared. “We just threw your lot out.”

“I’m an Ansei, not an Alik’r,” Cirroc corrected calmly. “How have the sons of the sands offended you?”

“They’ve been harassing Redguard women and accusing them of being traitors,” the guard said disgustedly. “Go back to Kematu and tell him to fuck off.”

Cirroc closed his eyes and sighed. “Kematu, of course. The biggest embarrassment to the Crowns since my cousin Sura-Leel got drunk and groped a statue of Mowhra.”

“We need entrance to the city. We were at Helgen,” Laina told the guard.

“No one’s allowed because of the dragons,” was the response.

“Yes, because a dragon will walk up to the entrance and politely ask for permission to burn the city down,” his sister retorted acidly. “I’ll amend my request: I am Laina South-Wind, court researcher of Haafingar, member of the High Queen’s Privy Council and wife to Jarl Argis the Bulwark of the Reach. Open the damn gate before _I_ open it and you can explain to Jarl Balgruuf why it has no hinges.”

Cirroc swallowed a laugh as the guards hurried to comply.

“Can you really blast the gate from its hinges?” he asked curiously as they walked past an arguing pair at the smithy.

“Blast? Inefficient use of power.” Laina smiled wryly. “I’d just rust the iron and steel parts until the gate fell apart.”

In sword-fighting, it was skill that triumphed over strength. Cirroc was beginning to realise that it was much the same for magic, at least with his sister.

He shook his head as he followed her. Her skill at sorcery might match his at duelling. If she could use that strange ice-sword as well as he could the Soul Sword…

_No, she uses it as a backup weapon,_ he reminded himself and relaxed. At least he was better than her at something.

The idea that he mightn’t be one of the greatest duellists in the world was unsettling, so he set it aside to worry about the more immediate problem of Kematu and his idiots.


	3. The Heir of the Septims

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. Laina be like “How do you say ‘go fuck yourself, Akatosh, in Dragonish’?”

“Laina South-Wind. I should have known you’d arrive on the wind of news about dragons.”

Balgruuf lounged back in his horse-carved throne as Laina wiped her palms on her soot-stained robes. Endarie and Taarie would pitch a fit if they saw the state of them. “I was at Helgen before the World-Eater did his best to dismantle it,” she said with some asperity. “Consider this official word of the incident, my lord.”

The Jarl’s eyebrows rose sharply. “You’re certain it was Alduin himself?”

“Jarl, I don’t tell you how to run a trade deal, so I’d thank you kindly not to cast aspersions on my knowledge of dragons,” Laina countered. “Big, black, spiky with glowing red eyes of doom? Sounds like every depiction of Alduin I’ve come across.”

Balgruuf sucked back a breath in amusement. “You’ve sharpened your tongue in the past few months, I see.”

“My tolerance for polite bullshit’s gone out the window,” Laina admitted candidly. “I tried… well, it failed. The World-Eater’s back, I’m probably going to need your palace’s dragon trap sooner or later, and I need to find a way to stop the Legion and the Stormcloaks from filling Alduin’s gullet with the souls of heroes. I have a map of dragon burials and possible tactics with which your guard may bring one down and render it incapable of resurrection until the Dragonborn can absorb its soul.”

“Finally, someone with some ideas beyond ‘fill a few buckets with water’,” Irileth, his Dunmer huscarl, observed sardonically.

Laina offered the documents to the womer. “I’m sure the Nerevarine might have a few ideas of her own.”

“Sadly, a dragon was the only thing not thrown at me by Dagoth or Almalexia during that time,” Irileth noted dourly. “I know you may not see this as a compliment, Laina, but you are a throwback to the Blades I knew and worked with. Whoever the Last Dragonborn is, they will be well advised by you.”

“Thank you,” Laina said softly, bowing her head in respect.

“For now, you should talk to Farengar, my court wizard. While I wager you know more than him, his particular specialty at the College was the Dragon War,” Balgruuf suggested. “I’ll have a room prepared for you.”

Laina bowed. “Thank you, Jarl Balgruuf. I apologise for my, ah…”

The Jarl’s expression softened slightly. “You survived Helgen and find yourself the only one with any kind of knowledge of the dragons outside of the Greybeards. I myself might be snappish in such circumstances.”

He waved a hand. “Dismissed.”

Laina took advantage of the Jarl’s hospitality to bathe and change into a borrowed gown before working some cleaning magics on her robes. Bless Taarie for teaching her the Altmer little magics that made it possible. Even so, there was still fraying and scorch marks on the cloth.

Farengar was poring over the documents pertaining to the Dragonstone and her conclusions when she entered his workroom, switching between the papers and an ancient book. Next to him stood a sharp-jawed Breton with greying blonde hair and well-worn leather armour. “Good. My employers will be interested,” she said in a slightly nasal soprano.

“It was my pleasure, Delphine, but you really ought to thank Laina South-Wind for the basic research,” Farengar said modestly. “She isn’t as familiar with the specifics of the Dragon War as I am, but her knowledge of the Dragon Cult in general is superior, allowing me to find context and refine the map.”

“Delphine,” Laina said with a sigh. “I should have guessed you’d show up.”

“I suppose I’m the last one standing in more ways than one,” the former Second Blade admitted with a sign of her own. “I’m sorry about your father. He was an ass at times, but he was a good friend once.”

_You mean he was your lover,_ Laina thought bitterly.

“I’ve refined your map and made copies to be distributed,” Farengar said quickly, looking between the two women. “You needed the contextual knowledge of where the local settlements were during the Dragon Cult years-“

“Dragon! A dragon has attacked the western watchtower!” bellowed a guard from the Great Hall.

“So it begins,” Laina said with a sigh. “Delphine, go and get the Companions. If you see a Redguard with a gold-hilted sword, tell him that there’s a chance for an Ansei to earn glory.”

“What makes you think I’m getting involved?” Delphine asked.

“Because you remember enough of your oaths to go chasing dragonlore,” was Laina’s flat response. “Whatever Esbern knew, I probably do. You were Second Blade, the leader of our armies. Act like it.”

“Are you trying to get me killed?” hissed the Breton.

Laina gave her a flat stare. “If you don’t obey me, I will show you just how much like my mother I am. If throwing you to the Thalmor keeps them from trying to stop me stopping the dragons… you bet your adulterous arse I’ll do it.”

The Blade smiled thinly. “If you’d been Grandmaster during the Great War, none of this would ever have happened.”

She took herself off as Irileth approached. “We need you at the western watchtower,” she said tersely. “Farengar can’t be spared.”

“Here’s to hoping the dragon isn’t big and black,” Laina observed with a sigh. “Just let me get into my robes.”

…

Laina had definitely inherited Sigdrifa’s icy temper, Delphine mused as they all ran down to the western watchtower, which was very much on fire and smelling of burnt meat. Thankfully, she’d inherited Sigdrifa’s competence and Julius Martin’s affinity for magic.

The dragon returned for round two as they reached the tower and was immediately treated to Laina’s Conjuration of a fiery hawk that exploded in its eyes. Delphine raised her eyebrows; wasn’t Conjuration forbidden to Synodic mages?

“Brit grah!” laughed the beast. “I had forgotten what sport mortals can provide.”

He strafed Irileth and her guards with fire, but the Nerevarine retaliated with lightning; on the way down, Laina had explained the Thu’um drew on magicka and so sapping the dragon’s energy pool could reduce the Shouts. That matched something Esbern said years ago.

“Aim for the wings!” Laina ordered the archers as a great globe of ball lightning arced from her hands to the dragon’s spine. “Ground him and flank him!”

Delphine nodded approvingly. Laina had inherited her mother’s tactical instincts.

“Die now in vain!” laughed the dragon as he turned his head balefully in Laina’s direction.

Then Cirroc, Rustem’s other child, threw a shining golden-hilted sword that arced around the beast of its own accord and began to slash at the tough wing-webbing. No matter how much the dragon bucked and turned, the sword danced around, wielded by an invisible hand.

When the dragon crashed to the earth, Farkas and Vilkas flanked him, Aela peppering his face with arrows, and the guard clustering around like ants stripping a dead carcass. Delphine put in a few blows herself, but left the fighting to the rest.

It was a foregone conclusion. After a final blow from Cirroc, the beast cried out, “Dovahkiin? Niid!”

All the flesh burned from the bone and a great surge of power rushed in Delphine’s direction. By the Nine, her resolve and loyalty had been rewarded-

No. It went through her and wreathed Laina in Aedric fires. Of course, it was so perfect that Delphine couldn’t understand how she hadn’t realised it before.

Everyone else gasped in awe and shock. Delphine… She laughed at the folly of herself, Rustem and Sigdrifa, the Empire and even the Thalmor.

Laina… was the true heir of the Septims, the true Dragonborn. Let the enemies of the world tremble.


	4. We Shall See

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism. ‘Season Unending’ will occur much earlier in the storyline because Laina knows exactly what is at stake.

Argis pushed open the doors to Dragonsreach, startling the guards standing next to it, and earning an ireful glance from Irileth by Balgruuf’s throne. The Jarl himself was slouched indolently on the horse-carved chair, talking quietly with his smarmy Steward Proventus, and his brother was drinking mead at the high table. Behind Argis, Jordis the Sword-Maiden and his own huscarl Duach walked with a lighter tread.

It wasn’t until he was near Balgruuf’s throne that he heard his wife’s voice. Laina was talking to a portly Nord in mage robes, using her finger to trace glowing diagrams in the air. Her blue-green robes of an exotic cut had been replaced by the drab blue-and-brown ones popular with College mages but every seam still gleamed with enchantment.

Satisfied his wife looked outwardly well, Argis turned and nodded to the Jarl of Whiterun politely. They were political equals, though Balgruuf had some seniority due to his age and experience. They were also business partners as Reach silver flowed into the neighbouring Hold and was turned into the rich golden grain that made Whiterun famous.

“You should have sent a courier ahead,” Balgruuf observed as he inclined his head in return. “I would have prepared guest quarters.”

“Already rented a room at the Bannered Mare,” Argis told him. “I just rode down as soon as I heard.”

Balgruuf glanced at the workroom where the mages still talked. “She’s still processing it. One thing to prepare all of your life for a prophecy and another to learn you’re the chosen one.”

Argis smiled. “Alduin’s arse is as good as kicked.”

“Perhaps.” Balgruuf sighed and stroked his beard. “We’ll need to discuss a truce with the rebel Holds. Laina’s already made it clear she wants to use my dragon trap and I’d like to know my borders won’t be threatened while my guard’s occupied.”

“Bjarni and Egil aren’t stupid. Rebels, but not stupid,” Argis pointed out. “Bring it up with Tullius and send messages to the Old Holds. You’re better at diplomacy than I am.”

“Gods know I’ve tried to be,” Balgruuf drawled.

The conversation between Laina and Farengar came to an end, coin and soul gems exchanging hands, and the Dragonborn exited the workroom with a slightly harried expression. Argis stepped forward, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her into an embrace.

Laina breaking down in tears wasn’t unexpected but Argis used his bulk to shield her from the eyes of Balgruuf’s court. “The gods couldn’t have chosen better,” he murmured into her black hair.

“I didn’t want this,” she whispered back.

“I know. But the burden’s yours. I’ll help you carry it as much as I can.” Argis kissed the crown of her head.

She wiped her eyes. “I need to go to High Hrothgar, which will be interesting because the Greybeards hate the Blades.”

“Jordis will be going with you. I’d prefer to send a squad, but Nepos told me the Old Holds would see it as an act of war.”

“I have some thoughts about that.” Laina inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Bjarni’s not an idiot. I tend to go from Hold to Hold, dealing with the dragons so that Alduin runs out of minions, either by death or because they refuse to support him. The local Jarl’s guards can help.”

Argis nodded. “Sounds like you know what you’re doing.”

“I’ve been seriously planning for this since Torygg’s crippling.” Laina clasped his arms and stepped back. “How long can you stay?”

“I’ve got a room at the Bannered Mare for tonight.”

Her smile was slow. “Good. It’s going to be a while before I can see you again. Let’s make the most of it.”

…

“Doesn’t this bring back some memories,” Jordis observed lightly as she slung her sword across her back.

“I wish I could go back to the old days myself. But I can’t,” sighed her Thane.

“Hey, I knew you’d be famous when I met you,” Jordis reminded her.

“Famous, I can live with. Having the survival of the world rest on my shoulders is another.”

They left Whiterun and went down the Riverwood road, as the quickest route to Ivarstead lay through Haemar’s Pass on the border between Falkreath and the Rift. Laina was subdued, though responsive enough when a couple bandits tried to ambush them, her ice spikes killing them before they even got close enough to attack. Fighting all those draugr had honed her skills.

“So what happens at High Hrothgar?” Jordis asked as they walked through Haemar’s Pass.

“I undergo training and get sent to Ustengrav in Hjaalmarch to retrieve something,” Laina said with a sigh. “The Greybeards aren’t going to be thrilled one of the Aurelii is Dragonborn. I don’t need to piss them off more by fetching the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller first.”

“Hey, I’m sure you’ll redeem your family’s name,” Jordis assured her Thane.

“I couldn’t ruin it any further,” Laina observed wryly.

“See? Things can only go up from here.”

Ivarstead was a pleasant lumber village in the shadow of the Throat of the World, Tamriel’s tallest mountain. What wasn’t pleasant were the amount of bears around it. Four bears at the cave before the village and three more in the cave just across the bridge. Jordis and Laina found themselves the owners of seven pelts that the latter removed and tanned almost instantaneously with magic she’d learned from her Forsworn kin. Since the day had been lost fighting them, Laina hired rooms at the Vilemyr Inn.

They were eating a meal of mead, vegetable stew and sour flatbread when a handsome blond man in the blue-grey wrap of a Stormcloak entered the inn, looked around and made straight for their table.

“Ralof,” the Dragonborn said wearily, pushing her empty bowl aside. “What do you want?”

“Hello to you too,” Ralof drawled with a smile.

“I’ve had an exhausting couple of days and the next few months promise to be worse,” was Laina’s response. “What’s Bjarni’s right-hand man doing in Ivarstead?”

Ralof grimaced. “Helgen wasn’t fun for any of us. For what it’s worth, I… can’t agree with your support of Tullius, but I understand why you thought it was necessary. The dragons are already ravaging the Rift and Winterhold.”

“I rather thought they might, given that both Holds were centres of Dragon Cult activity. But that doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

The Stormcloak spread his hands. “I’ve been sent to meet the Dragonborn and assure them that the Old Holds will offer whatever support they need to defeat Alduin. Let it not be said the true children of Skyrim stinted in their aid when the world was on the line.”

“Much appreciated,” Laina said wryly. “Tell my brothers and their Jarls to reach out to Balgruuf and Argis to discuss a truce. The dragons are a lot like my father – equal opportunity arseholes – and I’m going to have my hands full.”

Ralof’s eyebrow rose. “You’re the Dragonborn?”

“It certainly isn’t me,” Jordis informed him tartly.

“I could Shout you arse over head, but that would make things awkward,” Laina added. “Ulfric – despite all the warnings – started this mess. I’m going to need Bjarni and Egil’s help to finish it.”

Ralof inclined his head. “Understood. Laina… We know your bloodline-“

“My family is irrelevant,” Laina interrupted flatly. “My loyalty is to Torygg and Elisif, my duty to defeat the dragons. I have no higher ambition than to be a recognised scholar and mage.”

“You may not but there will be those who attempt to make something of your bloodline,” Ralof answered quietly. “I’ll see if I can keep them shut up. But you are the last true descendant of Talos, Laina. Can you really deny the call of your blood?”

“I can. I’ve been doing it for years.” Laina rose to her feet. “This conversation is over.”

Jordis blinked as the mage stalked to her bedroom. “She’s a Septim?”

“She is. Rustem demonstrated beyond doubt that he was one.” Ralof snickered. “Seeing Sigdrifa’s face that day was a joy.”

“A Septim Empress and a Longhouse Emperor,” Jordis drawled. “It would be an interesting combination.”

Ralof smirked. “The Thalmor wouldn’t take it lying down.”

“Of course not. They want to end the world.” Jordis stood up, swallowing the last of her mead. “But in order to stop Alduin from beating them to it, we need that truce.”

“It will happen,” Ralof promised. “As a sign of good faith, Bjarni will issue a proclamation recognising the Reach’s right to have a Jarl of their own royal blood.”

“That won’t make Argis like Stormcloaks any the more.”

“I know,” Ralof said simply. “But things are different under Bjarni. You’ll see.”

“I suppose we shall.”


	5. Sins of My Ancestors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism and the whole shitshow that is the Aurelii. Posting will be sporadic over the next few days as my shithead computer’s playing up again.

High Hrothgar was a fortress reinforced by stone and magic against the thunder of the Thu’um. Even here, Laina could hear the hush of a sacred silence that waited expectantly to be broken by the tongue that probably made the world. At the highest peak was the eyrie of Paarthurnax, second most powerful dragon in the world, the one who gave humanity the Thu’um at Kyne’s behest. The Greybeards wouldn’t be pleased to know she knew all about the old grey dragon and his deeds.

With a deep breath, Laina opened the metal doors, letting herself and Jordis inside. It was dim and few braziers were lit, but the sun shone through a skylight in the centre of the main hall.

An old man, swathed in rough grey cloth with only the glitter of bright blue eyes, an aquiline beak of a nose to match hers and skin the colour of old bronze visible, came forth from the shadows. “So, a Dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of the age.”

“It wasn’t _my_ idea,” Laina pointed out ruefully.

“Many covet the power of the Thu’um. Few comprehend the awesome responsibilities that come with it,” the monk noted. “I am Master Arngeir, the voice of the Greybeards.”

“Laina South-Wind, daughter of Rustem, granddaughter of Arius, great-granddaughter of Julius Martin, great-great-granddaughter of Martin Septim and Aurelia Northstar,” Laina answered candidly. “I was a scholar of the Dragon Cult before… well… everything went to Oblivion.”

“You are a Blade?” demanded Arngeir, his weary tenor sharpening.

“I have their knowledge but never took oath,” Laina admitted. “Paarthurnax is safe from me, Master Arngeir. If he hasn’t started chowing down on mortals over the past five thousand years, I don’t think he’s going to start now.”

One of the other Greybeards, a tall spare man, coughed into his hand and even that sound brought a rumble from the stones.

“And if the Blades sought his death?” Arngeir continued.

“Shout ‘em off the mountain for all I care,” Laina said with a shrug. “My tolerance for internal politics is as thin as a Thalmor’s mercy at the moment. It’s my job to stop Alduin and I’m willing to play nice if you are.”

“Let us test your Thu’um first,” Arngeir suggested in a vinegary tone.

“WUND!” Laina used the Whirlwind Shout she’d learned and unlocked one Word of, knocking past two of the Greybeards.

“Not ‘FUS’?” he asked.

“I’ve always had an affinity for storm magic,” Laina said as she walked into place. “I know the first Word of Unrelenting Force in full and I understand several others. My studies were extensive before Alduin’s return.”

“What need have you for our wisdom if you know so much?” Arngeir asked acidly.

“Fuck off, you withered old goat,” Laina retorted wearily. “I don’t know everything. I didn’t even ask for this job. The Elder Council’s probably shitting itself at the thought of a Dragonborn Septim running around. Kyne knows I’m unhappy about it because the past three generations of the Aurelii have been unmitigated fuckwits and all their shit has fallen on me. Help me or doom the world, but don’t be a sarcastic old prick. You don’t have the wit for it.”

The tall, spare Greybeard snickered and even the other two looked amused.

“You know nothing of the past, girl,” Arngeir retorted flatly, “But you’ve inherited the Aurelii arrogance in full.”

Laina fell silent for a moment, studying the nose and complexion that was like hers, putting two and two together. She opened her mouth to say something cutting and polite, meant to remind Julius Martin of his failings as a Blade and ancestor.

What came out was an imprecation a slightly drunken Bjarni had taught her last Moot, Dovahzul arranged in such a manner as to make Sanguine blush. Arngeir’s jaw dropped at the implications of what she said about his sexual preferences and personal hygiene and even two of the other three Greybeards were stunned.

But the tall one, who stepped into the light to reveal hair of frost-and-iron and a familiar face, burst out laughing and made rapid gestures to the other Greybeards.

“Wulfgar!” Laina cried out gladly. She remembered the old Tongue who’d abandoned the Blades in disgust at Arius’ corruption.

“Kah-Lah-Nah,” he responded with a smile, even his whisper shaking the walls slightly.

_Pride-Magicka-Fury._ Laina supposed it was true.

Julius Martin – no, Arngeir – grew positively icy. “You don’t know what that phrase means. You couldn’t.”

“You should invite Bjarni Ulfricsson up here. He’s fluent in Dovahzul to the point he can swear quite inventively,” Laina suggested.

“The language of the Thu’um is not for… for…” Arngeir struggled to find the words.

“I get it, it’s sacred, and I’m sorry. But damn you, Julius Martin, you left Arius in charge and he was as mad as could be. Why did you leave us?” Laina demanded.

One of the other Greybeards pulled out a slate and chalk, writing something.

_“He believed he was the Last Dragonborn. He was wrong and learned humility here.”_

“I see delusions of grandeur run in the family,” Laina muttered.

Arngeir’s mouth tightened. “You know nothing of the times I lived in.”

“I studied history, you ass,” Laina retorted. “Are you going to teach me or are you going to continue in the Aurelii tradition of being a useless-“

“I will teach you,” Arngeir said frostily. “Humility, if not the Thu’um.”

Laina gave him an icy glare. “The Empire fed me humility until I was ready to burst because of the sins of our family. Don’t talk to me about ‘humility’.”

Wulfgar sighed and the other Greybeards shook their heads.

It was going to be a long day.


	6. Get A Life and Get Over It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

Laina’s training lasted all of two days at High Hrothgar, Wulfgar and Borri handling the bulk of it as Arngeir was too bitter from her words to remain objective. She regretted her outburst – yet not, for she’d been able to purge more of the lingering poison from her family’s festering wounds. There would be a clean end of it, for her sake and Cirroc’s.

The walk down the seven thousand steps was quiet, Jordis sensing her need for silence. She’d stop at Whiterun, find out how the truce-meeting was going, then travel Ustengrav, retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, return to High Hrothgar and hopefully convince the Greybeards she wasn’t interested in rehashing ancient feuds. Talos and the Blades were dead; let them remain so.

They left Ivarstead after a night’s rest and the walk through Haemar’s Pass was uneventful. It wasn’t until the green pine boughs of Falkreath shadowed the road that a ragged bandit in cheap hide armour stepped into their path, dagger at the ready. “Your money or your life!” he demanded.

“I don’t have time for this,” Laina muttered, casting a Flesh spell. “Now piss off or be Shouted arse over head into Lake Ilinata.”

“You’re the Dragonborn?” he asked with a laugh.

“WUND NAH KEST!” Laina’s Whirlwind Shout pushed her past him, leaving a clash of steel in her wake as Jordis put him down.

The huscarl joined her a few minutes later with a disgusted expression. “He had a flawed garnet and twenty septims on him.”

“That explains why he chose to hold up a mage and her steel-clad hireling,” Laina observed dryly.

“Perhaps.”

Laina took the road to Riverwood, not wishing to chance Falkreath-town’s hospitality, even if Dengeir had been removed. Siddgeir irritated her as a lackey of the Thalmor.

Delphine wasn’t at the Sleeping Giant Inn, the barkeep Orgnar unable or unwilling to tell them where she’d gone. Knowing Delphine and her penchant for meddling, it probably wasn’t good. Obedience had never been in the Third Blade’s vocabulary.

She went on to Whiterun, where matters were proceeding apace. The Companions had agreed to host the truce meeting; she’d have enough time to go to Ustengrav, then back to High Hrothgar, and return as the acclaimed Dragonborn. That might knock some sense into stubborn Stormcloak heads.

Another night at the Bannered Mare and they were on the road to Hjaalmarch the next day. Ye gods, the Hold was bleak and swampy, and Morthal was… not a good place to be. Laina was especially displeased to get roped into investigating a murder that turned out to be the clearing of a vampire coven led by a three centuries-old master. But Idgrod was grateful and promised to help keep the peace at the truce meeting.

_“The tangle of the civil war isn’t your problem unless you make it so,”_ the seeress had told her._ “It falls to the saint and the heir and the bear to sort out.”_

Cirroc, Akaviria and Bjarni. Good gods.

Ustengrav was overrun by necromancers. Of course it was. The draugr were an improvement, even if every dead Greybeard from the time of Jurgen to now was buried there, intent on barring her way. Laina learned a new Word – Feim – and when she won through to the inner sanctum, the horn was gone, a note in Delphine’s writing left in its place.

On the way back to Whiterun, Laina and Jordis explored the outer reaches of their cursing. There was going to be hell to pay and Delphine would be coughing up the fee.

The Breton didn’t even pretend to be surprised when Laina stormed into the Sleeping Giant. “I did it years ago, to make sure the Dragonborn would come to me,” she said hastily. “But it’s good that you’re here. We have a lead we need to pursue involving the Thalmor.”

“No,” Laina said flatly. “Hand over the bloody horn now.”

“Laina, they’re hunting Esbern,” Delphine said quickly. “You remember him, right?”

“Of course I do.” Laina plucked the horn from Delphine’s hands. “But I’m not crossing the Thalmor. Go to Riften and ask the Guild. They’re always looking for coin.”

“Aren’t you interested in finding out what the Thalmor know?”

“Nope. I have a little thing called ‘dragons’ on my plate, who are a more immediate threat to the world than the Thalmor.” Laina tucked the horn back into her satchel. “The Blades are dead, Delphine. I have no intention of resurrecting them.”

The Breton gave her an aghast gaze. “What about the lore?”

“I’ll figure something out. Maybe a new militant Kynaran order.” Laina shrugged. “Julius Martin’s alive. He’s the chief of the Greybeards. Maybe you should go up there and scream at him. I did. It was remarkably therapeutic.”

Delphine slowly shook her head. “You’re like your father. You don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself.”

“No, Delphine. I just don’t see the point in killing or dying for the memory of a group of fucking idiots led by a madman,” Laina said wearily. “The Blades are dead. The Septims are dead. Talos is probably dead. Get over the past and make a new future. That’s what I intend to do.”

“You just can’t pretend that the old threat hasn’t gone away!” Delphine yelled as Laina left.

“No,” she shot back, “But I can stop repeating the mistakes of my ancestors. Get a fucking life, Delphine, because you damn well need it.”

She was out of earshot by the time the real swearing started.


	7. Interlude: No. Not Ever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

Suffice to say, finding Irkand in the Ragged Flagon was a shock to Delphine. Finding him sharing a drink with Esbern, the heads of five Altmer piled casually by the table, was quite another. The Redguard had gone fully silver and it was strange to see him with one hand, wearing the brown leathers of a Thief instead of the Akaviri lamellar or his post-War studded brigandine. Esbern was older and more haggard, but his unctuous tones were still strong as they discussed the past.

“I should have guessed you’d beat me to the punch,” Delphine said lightly as she neared them. “I thought the Penitus Oculatus killed you?”

“They tried,” Irkand said in his oiled-silk tenor. “Have you heard who the Last Dragonborn is?”

“Laina. And believe me, she’s expressed her opinion of the Blades, the Greybeards and the Stormcloaks in no uncertain terms,” Delphine confirmed sardonically. “She’s aligned to the Empire in general and the Forsworn in particular.”

“The Forsworn?!” Esbern exclaimed in shock.

“Sigdrifa’s mother is a Hagraven who snuck into Bruma and taught Laina their ways,” Irkand said, popping the cork on his bottle of mead one-handed. “Laina’s married to the Jarl of the Reach, who’s apparently also the Forsworn King in their traditions.”

“You’re the last Silver-Blood,” Delphine said sympathetically, sitting down. “Laina left you to the Thalmor without a qualm. She says Julius Martin is a Greybeard and suggested I go up and scream at him if I want to feel better.”

Esbern’s gaze was distant. “If she’s aligned with the Forsworn, I must assume she’s opened Sky Haven Temple and seen Alduin’s Wall. I saw tracings of it at Cloud Ruler; at the end, the Blades kneel, their vows fulfilled as the Last Dragonborn contends with Alduin.”

“There are still dragons and she hasn’t defeated Alduin yet, dammit!”

“Laina has it well in hand,” Irkand said, his mouth quirking.

“She knows she’s a Septim,” Delphine added with a sigh. “And says Talos is dead because she doesn’t care about her bloodlines.”

“All things end,” Esbern said quietly. “Even Shezzarines.”

Irkand took a swig of mead. “I think the power of Kynareth is rising. All of the other Dragonborn bar Miraak were closely aligned to Shor, Wulfharth or Talos. But Laina is touched by Kynareth… and who knows what the Mother of Men and Beasts is planning?”

“It’s none of our concern,” Esbern said tightly. “Laina has rejected the Blades, as is her right as Dragonborn. But I’m guessing you tried to manipulate her, didn’t you, Delphine?”

“I was doing-“ Delphine began, only to be cut off by Irkand.

“What you do best. Manipulate, control and discard people like tools.” His tone was bitter. “The only difference between you and Sigdrifa was that _she_ never broke a marriage vow.”

“Irkand, damn it-“

“Shut up,” Irkand said. “For once in your life, Delphine Revanche, shut up and listen.”

The assassin rose to his feet with an echo of his old grace. “Why did you betray me for my brother? No harm will come to you – you can go as you wish. But I deserve that much of an answer.”

Delphine regarded him grimly. “If I’d known how Rustem turned out, I’d have chosen differently.”

“That is no answer.”

“Rustem was closer to the leadership of the Blades than you are. I never wanted to be the brains of the operation, Irkand. You’re a tool who can barely think for himself. Your brother, for all his faults, was a leader.”

“So you wished to be the power beside or behind the throne,” Esbern remarked quietly.

“What’s so bad about that?” Delphine asked in confusion. “Isn’t that what the Blades were supposed to be?”

Irkand shook his head. “No. Not ever.”

To the end of her days, Delphine never understood what he meant.


	8. Changing up the Plan (aka "Dammit, Galmar!")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for death, violence, fantastic racism, imprisonment, genocide and pretty much both sides of the civil war being arseholes. Galmar decided to do this and I wasn’t in the mood to rewrite the entire negotiation, so it’s happening off-screen.

_“Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu'ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau. Naal Thu'umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth. Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dahmaan daar rok.”_

The thunder of the Thu’um rolled across Skyrim as they greeted the Dragonborn and proclaimed her to be Ysmir and the Dragon of the North.

“Your sister could end this war if she wanted to,” Galmar said glumly as they studied the maps in the war room. “To have one of Talos’ blood on the Ruby Throne…”

“Laina’s made it abundantly clear what she thinks of thrones, rebellions and even the Blades,” Egil pointed out quietly. “Not all of it is the Empire’s doing, old bear.”

“To be honest, I’m not sure having Sheogorath’s blood on the Ruby Throne is a good idea,” Bjarni said with a sigh. “There are other dragon-blooded lines. It was only the direct descent from Talos that was thought lost.”

“So we surrender?” Galmar asked grimly.

“We make a truce. Akaviria has trained as a Companion, if my understanding of what Njada’s told us is true,” Bjarni decided. “High Rock has no reason to secede and while I think Hammerfell’s sympathetic, we’d need to prove ourselves to them, and we don’t have the manpower to take even a lesser Hold.”

Galmar pushed himself up from the table. “You mean we’ve had desertions?”

“Not just desertions. Laila’s been talking with her Steward about surrendering to the Empire because the Dragonborn’s on their side. Skald’s on the verge of being overthrown and his likely successor is Brina Merilis, a known Legion veteran and Imperial supporter. Korir still stands with us but…” Bjarni spread his hands helplessly.

“If we yield, hundreds will die at the hands of the Thalmor,” Galmar reminded him.

Bjarni nodded. “I know. I want to see if they’ll agree to a secession during the truce. Old bear, we need the breathing space and Laina needs to know we’re not stuffing Alduin with the souls of heroic Nords. If you have some kind of mighty weapon or strategy that will let us win a few days, tell me now.”

“I don’t,” Galmar confessed with a sigh. “I wish your parents were here.”

“I don’t,” Egil said bluntly. “They acted without honour and that’s why we’re in the situation we’re in now.”

Bjarni nodded to Dawnbreaker. “Does Meridia have anything to say on the situation?”

**_“Shezzarines come and go,” _**said an imperious voice from the shining sword. **_“Kynareth seems to have Her hand in this. As for weapons… I could give you a thousand Auroran cavalry if you swore Eastmarch to Me.”_**

“Meridia, be content to be one god among many,” Bjarni told her. “You have a shrine, you have a couple priests. That’s more than you had months ago.”

**_“I was simply stating what I could do. The offer’s always open, Bjarni. You and your brother are faithful to the Light.”_**

Galmar laughed shortly. “At least Meridia takes more of a hand than Talos seems to.”

“I can’t hand my people’s souls over to any god. What god someone worships, what they do with their soul, is their own business,” Bjarni said softly. “That’s why I allowed shrines to the Three Good Daedra, Malacath, Yff’re, the Hist and Meridia, Galmar. We can’t fight for our own religious freedom without giving it to others.”

Galmar grunted. “This is man’s oldest city in Tamriel. We shouldn’t cater to mer.”

“If we don’t, the Empire will, and we’ll lose the city,” Egil told the old warrior.

Bjarni inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “We go to the truce at Jorrvaskr. We will show Skyrim that we are capable of compromise. Let Laina worry about Alduin and we can worry about our fates afterwards.”

Galmar pounded fist to chest. “As you wish, my Jarl.”

…

The two bearers set Torygg’s chair down and removed the poles. He swung himself from the litter into a chair at the great table of Jorrvaskr as the rebels sat across from him. Elisif settled beside him and he squeezed her hand reassuringly. She would make a good High Queen.

Laina sat at the head of the table and Kodlak Whitemane at the foot. The Dragonborn wore one of the many outfits Taarie and Endarie designed for her, this one outlandish even by the sisters’ extravagant tastes. A robe had been covered in dozens of appliqued feathers that were dyed like the plumage of a Jeralls hawk, fluttering with every movement Laina made, and the hood had been fashioned in the shape of a hawk’s mask. The black tunic and breeks underneath were plain in comparison… but really, anything else would clash with the robe.

“Hawk-feathers?” Elisif asked amusedly. “I would have expected dragon-scales.”

“Oh, the sisters made a robe like that. I honestly felt like a reliquary during a New Life parade,” Laina said wryly. “I may be Ysmir… but I have yet to prove myself. Every minute we waste feeds Alduin’s strength.”

“To that end, let us not waste time,” Galmar suggested from across the table.

“Agreed,” Kodlak said. He rose and was about to speak when the doors of Jorrvaskr opened, revealing Elenwen and Ondolemar.

“We are here to make sure the interests of the Dominion are represented and the Empire doesn’t agree to anything that violates the White-Gold Concordat,” the Ambassador said sweetly.

Galmar Stone-Fist sighed wearily and stood up. “I do this of my own accord and for the sake of Skyrim.”

Before anyone, even the Dragonborn, could act, Ulfric’s huscarl pulled out a small throwing knife and flung it in Elenwen’s direction. The Ambassador collapsed with a glittering silver shard in her eye as everyone gasped in horror, shock or even joy.

“She tortured and imprisoned Ulfric. She’s slain many Nords in horrific ways, denying them Sovngarde,” Galmar said into the silence. “My life is forfeit, I know. But Ulfric asked me to stay alive to make sure his boys were alright and to see the end of the bitch who ruined so many lives.”

Laina inhaled shudderingly. “You will be executed after Alduin’s defeat, Galmar. I’ll not feed the World-Eater’s strength.”

Elisif found her voice. “So execute him as a traitor!”

Ondolemar had pulled out the knife in Elenwen’s eye with a vicious twist, the Ambassador shuddering once. Torygg realised she hadn’t made a sound, a flash of light dispelling a Muffle spell around her. “I warned her it wouldn’t end well,” the mer said calmly. “Until or if she is replaced, I will take her place as Ambassador. No one else has the experience with the Dragonborn I do.”

Bjarni, white-lipped, tightened his mouth. “I wasn’t expecting that. But damned if I hand him over for crucifixion.”

“Hand me over, boy,” Galmar said gruffly. “On the understanding that the Old Holds be allowed to secede and rule themselves.”

“You planned this all along,” Laina said grimly.

“I did.” Galmar gave a surprisingly boyish smile. “You look like your mother at the moment. She never did like it when I changed up the plan.”

“I’d damn you, but given my luck, you’d take over whatever plane of Oblivion I sent you to,” Laina said, standing up. “You know you’ve put us in a hell of a situation, Galmar?”

“Yes. The Dominion will come anyway, but if they come before _they’re_ ready, we all have a fighting chance.” Galmar looked long and hard at everyone at the table. “That’s the real enemy, Dragonborn. Even Alduin isn’t as dangerous as those damned elves.”

Ria pushed back her chair. “I will commute the sentence to a swift execution if the Stormcloaks acknowledge my right to the Ruby Throne.”

The lean Redguard sitting between Aela and Skjor laughed. “Good luck with that, oh Empress of the World.”

“Enough!” Laina’s voice cracked like thunder in the confines of Jorrvaskr. “Galmar’s life is forfeit. To that end, he can join me in Sovngarde to fight Alduin.”

Jordis frowned. “My Thane-“

“I won’t be dying. I… well, I need to find an Elder Scroll to learn a Shout so horrific that the Greybeards don’t even have a record of it. Galmar’s a dead man and I need someone I can sacrifice without hesitation. It isn’t a lack of trust, Jordis, it’s the very dear wish to keep a friend alive,” Laina told her gently.

“Nothing’s ever simple, is it?” Egil asked, speaking for the first time.

“No, it isn’t.” Laina shook her head wearily. “I need to trap one of Alduin’s lieutenants in Balgruuf’s dragon-trap after I find the Elder Scroll and learn this Shout Dragonrend. Then I need to find a portal to Sovngarde, traverse the mists and bring the World-Eater to battle. That means Galmar has the pleasure of being dragon-chow if necessary for _violating the very clear truce I put in place._”

“I’d do it again,” Galmar admitted.

“I know. Which is why executing you will only gain the Stormcloaks another martyr.” Laina bowed slightly to Ria. “Your Imperial Highness, I apologise for usurping your authority, but Alduin is the biggest danger at the moment. I swear by Kyne and Shor, as Ysmir and Dragon of the North, that I will make no claim to the Ruby Throne or any other damn throne in Tamriel. So far as I’m concerned, you’re the Empress, Elisif’s Queen of the loyalist Holds and Bjarni’s King of the Old Holds. Is this acceptable to you?”

“Do I have a choice?” Ria demanded.

“Not really. You claim to understand Nords.” Laina’s smile was a little chilly. “Try to convince them why it’s worth their while to remain in the Empire. I’m done with politics.”

She nodded to Galmar, who sighed and caught the throwing knife Ondolemar tossed back to him.

“Good shot, old boy,” the mer said with a smirk. “Have fun killing Alduin.”

“Shouldn’t you be more outraged?” Elisif demanded of the Justicar.

“Why? Elenwen was under orders not to interfere in the Dragonborn’s efforts. By coming here, she sought to undermine Laina’s attempts to make a truce because it is in the Dominion’s best interests you all bleed yourselves dry,” Ondolemar said candidly.

Jorrvaskr descended into absolute chaos and Torygg realised he was the only one to see Laina and Galmar leave. Then he turned his attention to winning as much as he could for Haafingar and his High Queen.

The next few hours would be interesting.


	9. In Sovngarde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. I’m nearly finished with this story; after it, I’ll be taking a bit of a break from the Aurelii ‘canon’ in pursuit of other things, including AUs and a possible rewrite of an extant work.

“To go living into Sovngarde… Even if Alduin should devour me, I’ll die content.”

“If Alduin should devour you, I hope he chokes!” snapped Laina South-Wind, flushed with the power of two more dragon souls. Even after fighting her way through a Dwemer ruin, sending Alduin running at High Hrothgar, trapping Odahviing and reaching Skuldafn on a dragon’s back, she still held a grudge against Galmar. Oh, she was her mother’s daughter.

Galmar rubbed his forearm, where lightning left its burn. He now knew better than to remind her of that.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” he grinned. “Sovngarde awaits!”

For one glorious moment, he beheld the vale in all its splendour, then Alduin’s mists cloaked it.

“I can clear the mists and find those trapped in it,” Laina said behind him. “Alduin knows I’m here. He fears to confront me for our next time shall be the last.”

And so they did. Galmar greeted many comrades, including Ulfric himself, and led the march to Tsun’s station before the whalebone bridge. “I’ll wait and confront Alduin,” the former Jarl announced.

“Good. If Alduin doesn’t choke on Galmar, he can choke on you,” Laina said waspishly.

“She called a truce and I killed Elenwen at it,” Galmar admitted as she went to speak to Tsun. “I’d do it over again.”

Ulfric grinned. “How’d the Cyrods take it?”

“Elisif wasn’t amused. They’re putting her forth as the High Queen, probably because she’s spawned Torygg’s get,” Galmar told him. “For now, Bjarni reigns the Old Holds, but I don’t see Akaviria letting things go like that. She trained as a Companion with Njada.”

Ulfric looked into the distance. “We did nothing but feed Alduin, Galmar. If you return, tell Bjarni and Egil to lay down their arms if Akaviria will accept their surrender peacefully.”

“Something like that may have occurred,” Galmar said. “Laina didn’t hang around after Ondolemar told them all the Thalmor’s grand plan for bleeding the Empire out. I was bound to go with her as ‘dragon-chow’, to quote her words.”

Ulfric snickered. “She’s her mother’s daughter.”

“Don’t say that unless you want a lightning bolt shoved squarely up your arse,” Galmar advised.

“We failed Skyrim,” Ulfric said with a sigh. “Eternity in Sovngarde won’t ease that knowledge.”

It was some time later that Laina returned, accompanied by three Nords in archaic armour… and an entire host of Blades warriors. “Shusseki suru!” she snapped. “Wārudoītā ga kimashita! Ima, anata no chikai wa jōju shimasu! Tatte, doragongādo no senshi, soshite anata ga chikatta yō ni sorera o nashitogete kudasai!”

“Attend! The World-Eater has come! Your oaths now stand to be fulfilled! Stand, warriors of the Dragon-Guard, and fulfil them as you vowed!” Ulfric said quietly.

“Akaviri?” Galmar guessed.

“Yes. Arngeir taught me the tongue. How he knew it, only Talos knows.”

As Laina led the Akaviri warriors across the whalebone bridge, Galmar could see her resemblance to them in the shape of her eyes, the olive-bronze of her complexion. Whatever the Aurelii had been, they were an ancient lineage.

He began to grin in anticipation. “Let us show thanks to Alduin for saving Bjarni’s life, shall we?”

Ulfric gave the same grin as he’d ever done, in battle or bed or at the board. “Let’s!”

They kissed each other in view of the Dragonborn and all the gathered heroes of Sovngarde.

“I never knew,” Laina said quietly. “Galmar, I’m… sorry. You weren’t avenging your friend, you were avenging your beloved.”

Ulfric rested his head against Galmar’s for a moment before glancing in her direction. “Your mother did, Laina. I think she was relieved because it meant she didn’t have to worry about me.”

“My father’s sins left many scars,” was all Sigdrifa’s daughter said, with a compassion her mother had never shown.

“Do we talk or do we fight?” demanded one of the Akaviri, a warrior wearing a demon-mask helmet.

“Kin-Tatsuo, you just prove all of my ancestors were a pain in the arse from the days of Reman Cyrodiil,” Laina said with a sigh. Then she turned to the Three Tongues. “Any ideas?”

“Clear Skies will call him,” said Felldir the Old – who had Laina’s blue-green eyes – calmly. “It may take a few times, even if we join our Voices together.”

It took three and on the gale of a dark, fetid wind came Alduin World-Eater.

The Tongues and Laina used a Shout in volleys, each one binding Alduin to the ground so that the Blades, the Akaviri, Galmar and Ulfric could attack. Where the Tongues spoke with hate, Laina spoke with understanding and finality, but Alduin howled with every Word, every blow, every time the sky was taken from him. Galmar tripped with a great cry at one point, pain shuddering through his chest, but he rose and laid into the dragon’s black hide with renewed vigour.

At the end, Alduin was nothing but a hollow empty fear, a child’s monster under the bed. He broke apart in seams of light and fire, crying out in what Galmar supposed was shocked despair.

They had won.

Laina said something more in Akaviri and the Dragonguard raised their katanas in salute before fading into mist. That left her, Tsun, Ulfric, Galmar and the Three Tongues.

“Your sentence has been carried out,” she told Galmar.

He thumped his chest. “I only tripped!”

“No.” Laina nodded and Galmar looked over his shoulder to see his crumpled form.

“He may enter Sovngarde,” Tsun decreed. “As for you, Dragonborn… you know your fate.”

“She’s earned Sovngarde!” Galmar roared.

“I don’t want it,” Laina said.

“But…” Galmar couldn’t believe it. “You’re a true Nord.”

“I have my duties but the gods will give me a measure of peace before the next crisis,” Laina said quietly. “Sovngarde would be hell for me, Galmar. Enjoy it for me.”

She turned away, said something briefly to Tsun, and was gone in an instant.

Galmar sighed. “Did you see Sigdrifa?”

“No.” Ulfric sighed, his expression regretful. “I suppose it’s just you and me now, old bear.”

Galmar found a grin. “Let’s teach the milk-drinkers in the hall how real Nords celebrate the defeat of Alduin!”

And they would, until the end of days.


	10. An End to War... For Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

Argis was mediating fishing rights between two clans in the Karth when the sound of many dragons chanting shook even the stone city of Markarth. He grabbed his sword and shield to defend his folk, but the sky outside was tranquil and there was no sign of fire and blood.

Aicantar, who’d joined him, dismissed the Flesh spell. “I think… they’re mourning Alduin,” the young mer said with a furrowed brow.

“You’re familiar with the Thu’um?” Calcelmo asked, frowning.

“Well, you’re studying Dwemer and there was overlap between the time of dragons and the time of dwarves,” Aicantar admitted with a sheepish shrug. “Laina was kind enough to teach me some of the basic words used by draugr in the tombs.”

“But what about my research?”

“Let the boy study what he wants,” Argis ordered, watching the sky intently. “You won’t live forever, after all.”

Calcelmo grumbled but muttered agreement.

Not an hour later, Laina arrived on the wings of a red dragon. Argis remembered her saying that the red dragons rarely sought dominion, preferring instead to serve one whose Voice was superior. Laina had obviously proven herself to this one.

“Thuri, I will go forth and proclaim your dominion to the other dragons,” the red beast told her as he landed on top of the Treasury House. “There will be those who want nothing of Paarthurnax’s ‘way of the voice’.”

“No eating people unless they’re bandits. You remember how to identify bandits, don’t you?” Laina instructed.

“Geh,” grumbled the dragon, sounding like Calcelmo several minutes before.

“I think you’ll find if you’re willing to regurgitate some of that metal you swallow or sell shed scales, you’ll find plenty of Reachers willing to supply you with goats and deer,” Argis told the dragon. “What’s your name?”

“That’s Argis, my husband and lord of this Hold,” Laina said.

“I am Odahviing,” the dragon said with a bow of his head. “Kah-Lah-Nah has told me I must obey your words as her own, so long as they do not send me to my death.”

“In the Reach, even I bow my head to my husband,” Laina said softly.

“Well, huscarl Odahviing, I’ll set aside some goats and meat rations for you,” Argis promised.

“Th…thank you,” Odahviing said slowly before he took off.

“Dragons aren’t familiar with gratitude,” Laina noted ruefully. “But they’ll learn.”

Argis was too busy embracing his wife to learn about draconic behavioural deficiencies.

It was later, _much_ later, when Laina brought up the aftermath of the peace summit at Jorrvaskr. Argis sighed and reached for the mead. It was going to be that kind of talk.

“Skyrim’s split into two,” he told after a swallow. “Ria offered her hand in marriage to Cirroc and Cirroc laughed in her face. Seems like he isn’t interested in marriage.”

“Or being Emperor and giving the legitimacy of the Septims to the Medes,” Laina noted, drinking from her own bottle. “But we have some breathing space now. The Thalmor won’t try anything for a few years, the dragons should hopefully settle down, and the civil war will resolve itself in one way or another.”

“You’re not getting involved?”

Laina shook her head. “I’d be a kinslayer at best, forced to make myself Empress at worst.”

Argis nodded and reached for her again. “Enough politics.”

And so it was… for a while.


End file.
